The Shirt
by Crownworthy
Summary: When Harry's aunt and uncle give him Dudley's favourite shirt, because it is too small for the large boy, none of the involved can forsee the consequences!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes:

This is an idea which popped into my mind just the other day. Basically, it's about the far-reaching consequences of Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia giving Harry Dudley's favourite shirt. It may be a bit violent. Some might find it too graphic, and they are hereby warned. All reviews are welcome. And now, on to the story!

Dudley Dursley was pissed off. Piers and Malcolm had been used to that for several years, but usually, when Dudley was pissed, it was due to what they considered valid reasons, like Mark Evans annoying the shit out of him, a television show being cancelled, Mandy Moorcock not responding to the sweet love letters which he used to lay on her desk whenever she looked the other way in chemistry class, or his cousins behaviour which by most would be considered most magical, indeed. This time, however, it was different, for though it involved Dudley's cousin, it did not involve his freakish behaviour. Or, maybe it did.

It had all started the morning of July the 14th, 1995. As per usual, Dudley had awoken late, and when realizing that it was sunny outside, quickly gone back to bed. As per usual, his friends had rung the doorbell at 14:15 in the afternoon, and as per usual, Petunia had, (after some arguing) gone to wake her son. Something horrible had however occurred.

Dudley could not find his favourite shirt! For the life of him, he could not figure out the reason! He vividly remembered telling his mother to get it washed for today, the evening before. Had she not listened? Had she dared defy him, her son, her pride and joy, her golden boy? He could not believe it! Neither could he understand why she would, as she always had done what she was told in the past! He would have to investigate this.

"Mommy! I want the green shirt with red stripes! Where is it!" he had half wailed, half asked, from atop the stairs.

"It does not fit you any longer. Your Father and I decided to give it to the Boy!" his Mother replied sombrely, as though this was a great tragedy indeed, though one that could not be prevented.

"But I want it!" Dudley shouted back, his face flushing with anger. "You promised that you'd wash it for me, and I shan't let him have it! I shan't! I shan't! I bloody well shan't! Shan't!" he continued. The last few words were screamed with such an intense rage, that Petunia drew back in the kitchen, tripped over the sink, where a kitchen knife which at this exact moment happened to be backstabbing her, stood.

"Ouch!" she said, and then she died.

Frustrated by not getting the response he desired, Dudley waddled downstairs, where he to his growing horror found his mother's corpse.

"Damn!" he said. "Now I'll never find out why they gave my shirt to him!"

At this realization, he started to cry. Watery tears fell from his eyes. Usually, he would have made sure that he cried into the sink, so that the wooden floor of the kitchen would not come into contact with the water and start festering, but since his mother was currently occupying it, he had no choice. As the tears hit the floor, they made a splashing sound, and Dudley was drawn out of his reveries. As he went to scrub the floor with a cloth which he found in the cupboard to the right of the sink, a brilliant idea hit him. He could get help from Piers and Malcolm to catch his cousin, and do to him as the dictator Franco did to his prisoners during his regime. They could torture it out of him!

Luckily for Dudley, Piers and Malcolm were still waiting patiently for their leader, and as their eyes saw him, their faces filled with anticipation.

"What are we gonna do today, Dud the Stud?", asked Malcolm, ever the curious one of Dudley's gang.

"I need to get some information from my cousin. You'll beat him up, and I'll ask the questions", Dudley replied calmly.

After he had put on his jacket and his shoes, they started their hunt. Where could he be? First, they strolled along Privet Drive in both directions, before Dudley had another stroke of genius.

"Let's see if he hides out in magnolia Crescent!", he said eagerly. "He usually hangs out there at this time of day, the peseant!", and so they set off.

XXX

Harry Potter was not hiding in Magnolia Crescent. Actually, he was not hiding at all, though he would prefer it to the situation he currently found himself in. Harry Potter was in a fight, and not just any fight!

One of the local hooligans had heard rumours that Harry Potter was as bad as he, and naturally, he had concluded that these were rumours set out by Harry Potter himself. When the boy had refused starting to work for him, he figured it meant war. And so it came to be that they were now fist fighting in a dark alley, or rather, the hooligan was beating up young Harry, as he (Harry) was unable to defend himself.

XXX

They did not find Harry in Magnolia Crescent. Neither was he in Privet Park, nor in Wysteria Walk.

"Where the bloody Hell is he?", Dudley thought out loud. Piers, who hopefully would never be promoted to the brains of the group, answered.

"I don't know, boss! Do you?"

Before Dudley was able to answer, they suddenly got a few very helpful clues which led them to Harry's whereabouts. The most helpful of these, were perhaps the screams they all knew and loved, coming from a back alley, and the voice shouting: "Ain't so tough now that Flying Fist Freddie has got a hold of you, ay? Ain't gonna be disrespecting me no more, are you? Are you! I asked you a bloody question, you bloody twat, and you bloody well answer it before I make bloody meat loaf out of you, and serve it to your bloody relatives, and use your bones as weapons against those bloody uptight Chelsea wankers, you bloody nancy boy!"

Dudley sighed to himself. If they were going to get the answers they needed from his cousin, this Freddie fellow would have to be stopped, before he killed him.

"Oy! Freddie!", he shouted in a phoney cockney accent, hoping that Freddie was easily fooled. "There's someone over here with a poster which says: "I apose the reign of Flying Fist Freddie! Let's work together to stop him!"

Fortunately for all involved, (except perhaps Freddie, though who knows what accidental magic might have unleashed upon him otherwise), Flying Fist Freddie came out of the alley. Dudley quickly pointed in the direction of a coming car, and said: "In there!", before walking in to the alley with a swagger to take a look at his badly bruised cousin.

His cousin was in a bad shape. He was drenched in his own blood and several of his ribs seemed to be cracked. What terrified Dudley, was however the shirt his cousin was wearing. It was green, with red stripes. It was Dudley's favourite shirt, and it was drenched in blood so that it was almost unrecognizeable!

Dudley was filled with a fury unlike any he had ever felt before. He was barely able to force out the words: "That's my favourite shirt, you jerk! How dare you go get beaten up while wearing it, huh? And why did they give it to you in the first place? You jerk! I hate you, and I shall give you the deadly blow!", before pouncing with a manly howl, while his cousin coughed up a stream of blood in reply.


	2. Chapter 2

Albus Dumbledore sat in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts, which he had been quite lucky to inherit, considering that the previous headmaster, Armando Dippett, had bit the dust after being poisoned by Albus himself, due to his supposed involvement with a suspect character known to most as Jack Ballsacker. It was the holidays, so there would usually be lots and lots of preparations for the next school year to occupy his time. During his long time as headmaster, Albus had however come to realize, that it was far more relaxing having the remaining staff doing such tasks, and who could really blame him? Anyone who had any understanding on the workings of a social hierarchy, should, in his opinion, be quite aware that signing letters and organizing the time table was work best left for people somewhat lower on the social ladder, like, for instance, his deputy, Minerva McGonagall.

It was due to this line of reasoning that Albus currently was thumbing through the pages of a mostly irrelevant book, while enjoying a Sherbet Lemon.

Outside, the sun was setting. Albus sighed tiredly, as he closed the book he was reading. There really was no reason for him to continue reading it. Most of the information in it seemed to be based on his own research when it came down to it, and he had not yet grown as senile as to forget it. He made a mental note to put the book back in the library sometime.

He was in the midst of leaving his office for the comfort of his private chambers, when his fireplace suddenly flared to life. Albus was shocked. He had not expected any visitors to come so late in the evening. In the seconds it took for the person to appear, Albus found himself wondering who it could be. He had told the staff that they were only to disturb him, in the direst of situations, and he could simply not imagine anything so dire having happened.

Perhaps the visitor was his estranged brother Aberforth, who, when he was not busy serving Fire Whisky in the local inn, spent his time experiencing and enjoying the wonders of sexual bliss with the local goats. It would not surprise Albus, had his elder brother found himself in some trouble with the hit wizards, for his controversial hobby. Yes, that had to be the most likely case.

When the visitor came through, it was however neither Aberforth, as Albus had believed, nor was it his staff, insisting on bothering him with some silly question or other. It was Vernon Dursley. Albus was deeply shocked.

XXX

"Damn those unnatural fireplaces!", Mr. Dursley said as he entered the room. Gratefully, it seemed, he accepted the drink Albus offered, and then said: "Oh, well! What harm can it do accepting your drink, after already having wandered through that death trap of a labyrinth?" He laughed sardonically.

Impatiently, Albus asked him what was wrong. In reply, Vernon took a great big sip from his drink, and then said: "It's the boy.". Here he hesitated.

"Well, I figured as much!", Albus said, sounding slightly annoyed. "What about him?".

Vernon swallowed.

"Well, it seems that", he started, before cutting off once more.

"It seems that?".

"It seems that the boy… It seems that… Well, to put it bluntly, I think he suffered a quite severe beating!".

Albus was still with shock.

"I think it's best you tell me everything, Mr. Dursley", he finally said.

XXX

"And then… well, I think he might not last too long.", Vernon Dursley finally finished his tale.

Albus sat back, rage filling his navy blue eyes. There was no twinkle anymore. It seemed the Devil was the only being left with any twinkling whatsoever, in the world.

And then, Vernon did one of the stupidest things he'd ever done. He asked: "So, the reason why I came to you is, well, I wondered if we could get a compensation for the damaged clothing!".

Author's notes:

So, usually I really don't like authors who don't stick to their guns about oneshots remaining oneshots, but what can you do when inspiration hits you? I don't know about the rest of you, but my integrity certainly can't stand against the pleasure of writing a new chapter. So, here you go!


End file.
